


Thy Kingdom Come

by purpjools



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angel Angel Dust, Angel Sex, Barebacking, Blasphemy, Blow Jobs, Bottom Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Brief rope binding, Come Eating, Corruption, Creampie, Facials, First Time, Heaven, Hell is empty because author is here, M/M, No Refractory Period, Painful Sex, Radio Angel, Religious Discussion, Smut, Top Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), sodomy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:49:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27670253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purpjools/pseuds/purpjools
Summary: Heaven is a divine paradise.But it can be so banal at times.Sterile.Luckily, The Radio Angel has Angel Dust to zhuzh up the place. And to add a dash of pizzazz.(In a decidedly less sterile, and moresordidsense.)
Relationships: Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel)
Comments: 36
Kudos: 136





	Thy Kingdom Come

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags. Contains biblical blasphemy in the form of angels ~~boning~~ fornicating.
> 
> "For the wicked boasteth of his heart's desire, and blesseth the covetous, whom the Lord abhorreth" (Psalms 10:3).
> 
> "Jesus is risen, it's no surprise, even he would martyr his mama to ride to hell between those thighs." -Rev 22:20 by Puscifer

“Coffee? Holy water?”

“’m fine, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.”

He pours himself a mug of the steaming beverage, a little quirk of his that overlapped into his eternity. He swirls it, habit since he’s aware that it will never burn his lips. The coffee, like the weather and everything else, is perfectly temperate.

After all, what would Heaven be if not flawless?

He takes a sip after blowing on it, another habit he hasn’t quite gotten rid of. It is, as always, delectable and just the ideal amount of bitter. He savors the sharp taste, like a bite, as it coats his tongue. Just the way he enjoys it.

Other than that, Alastor hasn’t much use for the trappings of human life. These days, it’s just his microphone and the station. Nothing more, nothing really less.

It sometimes (always) feels rather monotonous.

But monotony certainly does not apply to today.

Alastor wonders why Angel decided to visit, on the day of rest of all days, but it’s a fleeting thought. Nerves jangling for some odd reason, Alastor asks the obvious:

“So, what can I do you for?”

Angel shifts in his chair, shyly staring at the ground. It’s uncharacteristic of him to do so, but Alastor refrains from speaking out about it.

Confessions always need a little prodding, so Alastor does his best. He lifts his mug in cheerful toast.

“Isn’t Heaven swell?”

Angel bites his lip. “Sure. If ya like that sorta thing. Could be a little more excitin’.”

The statement is nearly blasphemous, and if Alastor was another kind of angel, he would chastise him for daring to utter such a thing. However, Alastor had always been a curious sort, almost to a fault. It is one of his many flaws that he prays daily to rid himself of.

“How so?” floats from his lips before he has a chance to think.

Angel worries his lip, nicking it in his barely disguised nervousness. Alastor’s eyes are immediately drawn to the pillowy center, at the bead of blood dotting his pink lower lip. A queer hunger rises inside him, quick and corrosive like bile. He forces it back down by taking a huge swig of his coffee, shuddering as tremors wrack his spine.

A faint blush spreads on Angel’s cheeks. “D’ya wanna try somethin’?”

Alastor cocks his head. “And what would that be?”

Angel’s legs jiggle as he sucks in a shaky breath. He then asks the most peculiar thing.

“Where’s your bedroom?”

Alastor furrows his brow. “Upstairs,” he answers.

Angel flushes even brighter at that.

It’s a fetching look on him, Alastor thinks. That smoky rose under those pretty freckles.

“Can I show ya there?”

Alastor smiles, the very portrait of congeniality. “Sure thing!”

* * *

He whistles a jaunty tune as Angel tags along.

Truth be told, he’s grown a tad restless lately. Doubtless, he loves his radio show, but this recent shadow of ennui is cloying. He’s taken to sighing during the biweekly prayer sessions in which all the principalities, archangels, and angels partake.

Even his radio show has gone a bit lackluster lately. There’s not much to report after the news, miracles, dedications to loved ones, and the ever-present impending doom of Revelations. A part of him just wishes that there were something more. Something a little more, well-

Entertaining.

Today, it seems, is his lucky day. His prayers appear to have been answered.

Swinging open his bedroom door, he gestures for Angel to sit. For lack of a better option, Angel relents. The mattress dips under his weight. He bites his lip as he crosses his legs at the ankles, revealing a pale band of flesh dotted with a single beauty mark where his robes ride up. Alastor absently wonders if he sports similar marks on the rest of his skin.

A polite cough jolts him back to the present.

Angel flushes, ducking his head. Alastor openly marvels at the switch in character.

Not many angels flout socially acceptable convention quite like Angel does. For one, the existence of wayward angels in Heaven is few and far between. Naughty angels tend to either fall in line or fall out of it, if one gets his drift.

And Alastor will be damned if Angel wasn’t the _naughtiest_ one he had ever met.

Since arriving in Heaven, Angel, née Anthony, swept right on through The Pearly Gates like a gale force and upended much of the Elysian Fields. He was always on the cusp of swearing and yammered on incessantly, often irritating the less equanimous angels. Angel is so rough around the edges he can sand down steel and speaks with an improper, bawdy flair. Instead of choosing a gender or remaining genderless, he frequently swaps between male and intersex, preferring the male guise, but retaining the intersex one to ruffle the wings of the more prudish and devout angels. If Alastor were honest, and he rarely isn’t, he would admit that he secretly enjoys the fact that Angel keeps everyone on their toes.

But the thought skirts near enough to blasphemy that Alastor banishes it into the holy abyss.

In the century since he’d known Angel, Alastor delighted in witnessing his playful and boisterous antics. It livened up an admittedly plain afterlife. He enjoyed reading the night scrolls on Angel’s misadventures and even recounted some that particularly tickled his fancy on his radio show.

Oh yes, Alastor thought. Angel is a force to be reckoned with.

Heaven beware.

But with all the observations he performed from afar, Alastor is wholly underprepared to deal with Angel up close and very personal. In the past decade, the social circumference separating them had shrunk. He couldn’t pinpoint the initial catalyst if he’d a gun to his head (a little joke about his mortal life that he enjoys telling) but he suspects that it all stemmed from the recapping of Angel’s exploits on his radio show. Known throughout Heaven as The Radio Angel, Alastor broadcasts six shows a week, resting of course, like everyone else, on the seventh day.

And though today is the aforementioned day of rest, Alastor cannot help but think that whatever Angel has in mind will completely contradict it.

* * *

Angel has been watching Alastor for years.

He hasn’t the faintest of what is wrong with him, only that he shouldn’t feel this way about another angel. It eats him up inside, especially during bible readings when they hit Leviticus. Prettier female angels abound; Heaven has no shortage of them.

But Angel can’t help the strange stirring in his stomach that travels up to the tips of his wings when he tunes in to the station and listens to Alastor’s broadcast. It certainly doesn’t help that the angel is infallibly dapper and gentlemanly. He was spotted the other day helping one of the younger angels with their hymns and aiding an older saint across one of Heaven’s busier streets. It’s the reason, he surmises, that Alastor rose to the title of Archangel within the past century, and seemingly overnight. In fact, the only angel that Alastor appears to have even the slightest whiff of animosity towards is The Television Angel. And even _he_ couldn’t care less about the guy.

What attracts Angel to Alastor is more than just that, though. As effusive and jocular as he is on his radio show, he seems, at least to Angel anyway, _lonely_. Most of the adolescent angels worship him on a pedestal, as blasphemous as it is. The older ones regard him with a distant sort of respect, acknowledging him but ultimately keeping to their own. Sometimes, Angel spies a wistful look on his face as he watches everyone from afar. Always on the fringe, and never truly accepted within a group.

Angel knows the feeling well.

Oftentimes, he feels like an outcast. It was true when he was alive, and it is true now.

God help them, he supposes.

And Lord forgive him for what he’s about to suggest.

“Do ya wanna lie with me?” he blurts out because Angel has no filter. He winces at the crass way it leaves his lips.

Alastor stares. Tinny noises trill from the radio on his nightstand. A loud whine brays from it before it settles back into silence.

“I beg your pardon?”

Angel panics.

“Ya know what? Forget what I said! I’ll be seein’ ya, Al, maybe next week at church!” He hops off the bed, fully intent on scurrying past the door, running downstairs, and flying right out of Alastor’s afterlife.

A vice grip around his bicep crushes those plans to ash.

To the untrained eye, it appears that Alastor is constantly chipper and gregarious. But they say that still waters run deep. Angel can only imagine that perhaps that proverb applies to choppy, tempestuous waters as well.

There’s a gleam in his eyes that Angel cannot parse.

“I’m game.”

Angel’s knees knock together. A fountain of hope bubbles inside him.

Alastor furrows his brow. “But how would we start?”

It’s sacrilegious, sinful, impious, but:

“Maybe if I spread my legs?”

He parts them, and Alastor’s jaw drops. He swallows, and Angel’s eyes follow the bobbing movement. Alastor’s hand crawls down his front, almost unconsciously.

His trousers tent and Angel’s eyes widen at the bulge. Not wanting to spook him, he spreads his legs further, flashing his naked skin in the line of Alastor’s darkened gaze. The archangel shifts uncertainly, palming himself through the fabric as if trying to settle it down to no avail. In fact, touching it only serves to do the opposite; Alastor gasps as he bucks into his hand, and by some instinct, strokes down.

Then up.

Angel watches him with fascination as he thrusts into his hand. He bites back a moan, but not fast enough. It escapes into the air, as breath trapped between them. Alastor jerks his hand back, shock rippling on his face. He blinks, noncomprehending, for a few seconds before regaining his regal bearings. Or whatever is left of it after that display.

His eyes snap to Angel’s.

“Do we need to undress fully?”

His befuddled demeanor only spurs Angel on further. He can’t remember all the specifics from when he was alive, but he is definitely sure that they both need to be naked. He flushes as his mind wanders to traitorous places: Alastor’s skin gliding against his, Angel’s neck stinging as he sinks in those sharp canines into his throat right before sucking hard, _marking_ him-

“Angel?”

He blinks.

Alastor’s attention is directed downwards. Angel doesn’t need to follow it to know exactly what he’s focusing on. Face flaming like Hell, he adjusts his robe just as Alastor reaches out and touches it.

Angel moans.

Alastor snatches his hand back immediately. He begins to speak, the radio going haywire, but Angel interrupts him.

“Yes,” he says, answering his earlier question.

Alastor hesitantly nods. With trembling fingers, he undoes his bowtie. He drags it down, sliding it from his neck. Angel watches, salivating. Bit by bit, Alastor peels his outer layers off but pauses at the buttons.

“Here, let me,” Angel murmurs as his fingers lift and settle on his waistcoat. He fumbles with the buttons when a warm hand encloses his wrist. Alastor’s breath ghosts just above his ear. Shivers race up his spine and flutter at the junction where his wings attach to his back. He ruffles his wings shamelessly, blushing as they react to Alastor’s proximity. He focuses on undressing him, trying his hardest to pray his excitement away. When he strips Alastor fully, Angel is on his knees.

Alastor’s enormous, and frankly unfair, excitement juts out and drags wetly against his cheek. Angel swoons.

Alastor, as usual, ruins the forking mood.

“Does this have anything to do with pollen? I was researching the other day and stumbled across a type of pollen that coerces humans to, well.” He glances around suspiciously, even though this is his gosh darn house and no one else is present.

“Copulate,” he whispers.

Angel rises. “What? No!” He peels off the front of his robes to punctuate the point. He doesn’t miss Alastor’s stuttering inhale or the queer dilation of his pupils, making his eyes far darker than they normally appear.

“This…it’s just me. _All_ me.” He undoes the rest of his robe. It pools around his ankles.

The volume from the radio jumps to unprecedented heights. Angel giggles, the absurdness of the situation finally hitting him.

“Ya nervous?”

Alastor laughs shakily. Angel heats, body reacting strangely to the sound.

“Maybe!” he exclaims, honest to a fault. “I mean, I think I remember some of it. It’s been a long time since I was alive, Angel. And I know I didn’t do this much.”

“Oh. Me neither.”

At the admission, Alastor tilts his head, curiosity flitting across his face. “Why?”

Angel colors, rubbing his arm. He glances away. “Didn’t like the options,” he croaks, but the words die in his throat. He takes a deep breath and tries again. “I wanted somethin’ else. They called it unnatural when I was down there. Immoral.”

“Ah.” The corners of his smile droop, just a bit. Angel notices.

He always does.

“I understand.” The affirmation hangs in the air. Alastor unfurls his wings, stretching them to their full wingspan before cradling them around Angel’s body. He shivers at the gentle whisper of feathers on his bare skin.

After the embrace, Angel sinks back down to his knees.

Alastor guides a feather across his cheek. “Have you done _this_ before?”

“No,” Angel sheepishly admits. “But I’ve always wanted to.”

Alastor’s voice is hushed and so deceptively light when he asks, “Why me?”

“I don’t know,” he says, chewing his lip. “I listen to your show every night. It makes me feel-”

He stops. _Funny_ is the wrong word.

Then it comes to him.

“Like floating.”

But without the need for wings.

* * *

Alastor’s chest rises at Angel’s confession. There’s a strange, arrhythmic beat inside, where long ago, his heart resided. For reasons unknown, it seems to be cranking up again. Angel reaches for him, wrapping a warm hand around the base when the radio shrieks. His fingers quickly release their hold at the sound.

“Wait,” Alastor says, lowering the radio to a less conspicuous decibel. “What about sodomy?”

Angel twists his head, blinking up with guileless eyes. Alastor’s once-defunct heart skips, and his wings shiver as they wrap themselves around his partner, cocooning him. A feather floats down to Angel’s crown.

“This ain’t sodomy, Al. It’s just…touchin’,” he finishes. “Besides, sodomy ain’t a sin, right? Wasn’t that cleared up ages ago?”

Was it? Alastor can’t remember. It all blurs together: the misquotes, contradictions, zealous fabrications. As much as he would like to keep track, he’s been distracted lately. Unfortunately, or fortunately if one were to read his body language, the distraction kneels before him, close enough to press his lips to the-

“Can I put my mouth on it?”

A nervous laugh track plays somewhere in the background as Alastor struggles to keep his powers under control. A queer, fuzzy sound weaves through the soundwaves, that makes the hair on the back of his neck rise, but then Angel breathes:

“I wanna taste you.”

And he’s utterly lost.

Alastor jerkily nods. His hips move of their own accord. He touches his pearling head against Angel’s lips. Angel parts them to flick out his tongue, dipping cautiously in the slit. The radio whistles, not unlike a boiling teapot, as Angel sucks gently around the head, darting out his tongue in different angles as he licks. Alastor bites his lip as Angel curls it under his shaft. He tastes blood in his mouth when Angel’s teeth graze the underside.

“Wow, Al. That’s a lot.” Alastor glances down, quizzically. His cock shines with spit and fluid. Angel’s face doesn’t fare any better. The precum clings to his lips, glossing them with slick. Thin threads connect Angel’s lips to his slit, and the appearance is _obscene_.

He is struck by greed and an incorrigible covetous urge. The radio flips between stations rapidly. His chest judders as he wars against the onslaught of ancient human emotions; dug out from deep within, and forcibly dragged out into the light.

“Al?”

The question rights him back on course. He forces himself to speak.

“Yes, Angel?” The radio picks up a sultry jazz number.

“Is it okay if I keep goin’?”

He inhales shakily. It takes all of his angelic will not to shove Angel down on his cock until his mouth is stuffed to the root. The station loses signal in between the muffled words.

“Oh, darling, _please_ do.”

_Something wicked this way comes_

He sighs as Angel’s soft mouth engulfs him. Slowly, he inches down the shaft, learning to relax his throat. He gags a few times and pulls off. The spasms feel rapturous around his cock, and a niggling feeling in the back of Alastor’s mind wonders if he can force it down Angel’s throat and trap him there as he chokes around it.

The radio flips through at least ten channels.

Alastor peers down, and it is as big of a mistake as underestimating Angel. He gazes up with those beguiling heterochromatic eyes, glassy with unshed tears, and sucks in a breath before swallowing him deep down to the base. Eyes snapping shut, he grips Angel’s hair. He mutters a quick blessing to partially numb his throat and then goes to town.

He fucks into Angel’s mouth mercilessly.

Angel whimpers, tears falling freely now. Alastor hushes him with a prayer, and within a handful of short, rough thrusts, he spills down his hot, tight throat. Angel fights to pull off, but Alastor just holds his head there, his nose flush against coarse hair, while he keeps coming.

It won’t stop, he belatedly realizes.

His other hand travels to Angel’s throat, where his neck bobs with every thick swallow. His toes curl as he rocks into that unyielding wet heat, the orgasm blissfully elongated and much, _much_ different than what he remembered when he was alive. Angel whines around the cock lodged in his throat.

Alastor’s eyes widen.

As the realization hits him, he yanks out. Angel’s teeth graze his head as he withdraws, but it only serves to heighten the pleasurable sensation. He spurts in thick ropes, generously coating his partner’s face. Angel’s long lashes flutter closed as come paints his cheeks. It feels like forever, but in reality, it only lasts a couple of seconds. Alastor’s fist milks out the last thick globs. His halo glows in blinding radiance as he finally peaks.

He takes a few moments to catch his breath before everything comes crashing down.

Alastor opens his eyes and is greeted by Angel’s smeared and debauched visage. His freckles are barely visible. Thick come webs his face, and his reddened lips swell under all that mess. He is just about to apologize profusely when Angel licks his lips, a pink tongue darting out and flicking. He experimentally tastes it, scooping up the thick cream on his cheeks, revealing those gorgeous freckles beneath, and brings it to his mouth. He laps it up, sucking greedily around his fingers.

A dark, twisted thing writhes inside Alastor, and it alarms him.

It frightens him, down to his very angelic core.

During Angel’s wanton pleasure in cleaning off his come, an errant thought strikes his mind. He glances down at Angel’s cock in a state of panic. He exhales. To his relief, it appears that Angel took care of his own needs while pleasuring Alastor, judging by the mess on the floor and smeared along his thighs.

As Angel finishes, Alastor drops to his hands and knees. He marvels at the way Angel’s eyes widen-in lust, in hope-and crawls forward. He lifts his leg, trailing kisses up the calf and along his inner thigh.

Fair’s fair, he thinks.

He cleans Angel _thoroughly_ with his tongue.

* * *

Guilt consumes him.

Alastor knows this cannot happen again.

He reminds himself later that night as he muffles his mouth with his hand, fisting his cock with the other.

Guilt consumes him, but he would be lying if he said that pleasure was completely absent. Guilt might, he treacherously thinks, even _enhance_ it.

He swiftly banishes the thought from his mind.

It goes blessedly blank as he climaxes.

Alastor is left with come cooling on his thighs, and the soft secret gasps of Angel trapped inside his memories.

* * *

The next time it happens, Angel exhibits no hesitation.

He strips down, whisking off Alastor’s outer garbs with a quick prayer. As touch-starved as he is, Angel refrains from completely overwhelming Alastor and clinging to him, but just by the skin of his teeth. He teems with excitement, jittery nerves causing him to flail as he touches the archangel, his skin ghosting over Alastor’s. It’s a rush that Angel remembers vividly from when he was alive; when he needed something to kickstart the broken and deadened switch in his mind.

But loving Alastor is much more heady and euphoric than anything those tinctures could offer him. To Angel, he is rapidly becoming everything, from his smell to the smoothness of his skin.

He wraps spidery limbs around Alastor’s body, marveling at the contrast to his freckled own. His wings beat against Alastor’s, in tandem with his measured breaths but miles slower than his racing heart. Even so, Angel can’t resist teasing in the wake of Alastor’s flustered face.

“Let’s try somethin’ else this time,” he urges, rutting against Alastor. He swipes his tongue over his lower lip and shivers as Alastor quakes under him. His cock pulsates under Angel’s, and thick, viscous warmth seeps between their slotted thighs. Angel dips his head and openly marvels at the sheer amount.

“I’m sorry,” Alastor gasps out. Angel adores how bashful he is about spilling so much. True, it’s a bit bizarre, and Angel doesn’t remember humans having that much seed.

Or that quick of a refractory period, either.

“It’s okay,” he reassures, patting his sticky stomach. He slides against Alastor’s body, the slick easing the way. Alastor bucks his hips, moans caught in his throat. So Angel leans forward and eases them into his warm mouth.

The kiss is startling and revolutionary. It’s also unbearably tender, and Angel yearns for it when they eventually part.

If this damns them both to Hell, at least Angel will have Alastor.

It’s an ungodly, blasphemous thought, but as Alastor’s lidded eyes gaze into his, Angel thinks that he’ll be fine either way.

In his mind, all versions of Alastor are his.

Even the damned ones.

* * *

“Angel,” he stutters.

This is a ludicrous idea, he thinks. Angels are known for their bravery, but it could also be seen as two steps behind foolishness. In this instance, Alastor decides to aim for the former and gamely soldiers on. He takes a deep breath.

“What else would you have us try, my dear?”

Instead of answering, Angel flips to his front. He displays himself on hands and knees, spreading obscenely. Exposing himself without shame.

Alastor’s heart flutters.

He has never witnessed a prettier sight.

All the wonders of the natural and eternal world cannot compare, because they are nothing to the slope of his lower back, indented by twin dimples. It is as if God himself created something just so to fit Alastor’s thumbs. Both dimples and that pretty, pink hole.

Temptation made flesh.

“Surprise me.”

Compelled by Lord knows what, Alastor does. He snaps his fingers, ropes weaving around Angel’s body, binding his arms to the back. Alastor whispers a prayer. The ropes tighten, embedding into skin and pulling taut against the muscles.

He swallows. Closing his eyes, he hums a long-forgotten hymn. Angel’s eyes widen as a plug appears inside him and stretches him open. As sacrilegious as it is, there’s no regret to be found in Alastor’s heart. Nor Angel’s, for that matter.

“I like this,” he admits, breathless.

Alastor prays for guidance or forgiveness. “I…I think I do too.”

The steel plug-like apparatus begins to vibrate. Angel gasps, arching as best as the restraints allow him to.

It buzzes, just like the strange noise in Alastor’s head.

Angel writhes and jerks as he fights against the bounds, just like Alastor knows he would. His cock feels heavy and neglected in his hand as he watches the arresting scene. Releasing a breath, he pumps up. Then down. The slide is made deliciously easier due to his come.

A guttural moan escapes his throat.

“Angel,” he says, “tell me what you need.”

The answer, come to find, is as simple as that. When he utters the word, Alastor feels foolish for even asking.

He delivers. He unties the ropes with another snap of his fingers. Arms flailing, Angel lands on his hands and knees again. The plug quivers inside him. Precum beads and dribbles down Angel’s cock. His face flushes as little gasps break free from his bitten lips. Alastor moves closer towards him, hand still stroking his cock, when Angel starts to chant. A luminescent glow surrounds him as the words flow into the stratosphere and evaporate.

Alarmed, Alastor grabs his wrist.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m changin’, Al. So we don’t, ya know, commit sodomy.”

Alastor closes his eyes, searching for strength. Angel is right; painfully so, but Alastor-

Alastor, so help him, wants this more than he has ever desired anything. In his past mortal life, and this one. He searches again for guidance, praying fervently to a god that rarely answers.

It doesn’t come.

And thus, Alastor paves his own path.

“Don’t change, Angel. I like you this way.”

Even though sodomy isn’t nearly enough to smite anyone, sex is a trickier subject, especially among angels. For regular saints, fornication was fine and dandy and even encouraged to boost morale. Angels, and archangels for that matter, were privy to certain rules, and even those lines were blurred depending on the regulation and the rank. Sodomy or not, Alastor _needs_ Angel. He’s fine with whatever form Angel chooses to take.

Nevertheless, the subsequent judgment call is nerve-wracking. But a flood of relief washes over Alastor as Angel nods with a soft smile. Exhaling, he finally releases his hold from around Angel’s wrist. He’s horrified when it reveals a bracelet of red blotches from where he had squeezed. He opens his mouth to apologize when Angel, maintaining eye contact, circles his thumb and forefinger over the bruises and _presses_.

Eyes fluttering shut, he moans.

Blessed be.

It takes all of Alastor’s holy willpower not to come right then and there.

He flips him over with a growl that slips from his lips. Gripping the base of his cock, he banishes the plug with a single word and lines it up with Angel’s fluttering hole.

“Wait, Al!”

Alastor can’t hear anything but the buzzing in his ears and thrusts in. Angel sobs. He clamps down sinfully around his cock, a vice that chokes him with every inch forward. It slithers from his mouth, another voice, this one layered with an undercurrent of static:

“Let me in, sweetheart.”

Angel helplessly obliges. He has no other choice but to.

The first wave of pleasure pierces through him like a lightning bolt, and Alastor spills inside his warm sheath. His cock pulses as he fucks into Angel, the tightness practically milking him. The come eases the way, but apparently not enough to Angel’s liking.

“Al, wait! It hurts! Please!”

The release allows him some measure of clarity, and Alastor’s face heats. Guilt burns inside his chest. He spouts off a hurried apology and mutters a prayer, looking towards the fair expanse of the heavens. Angel’s hole becomes immediately slicker, and even though Alastor’s clumsy thrusting elicits a moan from him, he finally relaxes.

The faintest blasphemy leaves his lips.

Alastor sinks in again, far too fast and too eager, chasing the tight wet heat that squeezes his cock. He thrusts erratically, sobs tumbling from his mouth as overwhelming pleasure rains over him. It’s coupled with a heady cloud of guilt, leaving him confused as it only serves to heighten his arousal. It builds up, warm and tingling, in his groin. He slams into Angel, racing after that high, that cosmic feeling beyond all comparison.

He watches in wonderment as Angel’s body yields to his cock. Alastor is struck with the invasive thought that _this_ , Angel writhing and flushing beneath him, is worth more than any currency.

Than even Heaven itself.

“I apologize, Angel,” he gasps. “I don’t know what came over me.” Alastor pinches his eyes shut. “I can take it out,” he babbles, but for the first time, he realizes that he does not want to.

He wants to be buried, deep inside Angel, until he marks him. Until he _claims_ him.

Something dark stirs in Alastor at the covetous thought.

He withdraws an inch, trying his darnedest not to fuck back into that sinful heat, when Angel meekly whimpers, “No, Al. Keep it in. Just make it not hurt. Please.”

The repercussions of using inappropriate miracles do not even cross Alastor’s mind. He just hopes fervently that Angel won’t ask him to stop.

Because Alastor doesn’t have the fortitude to.

* * *

Everything about this indecent act is sin.

It is depravity at its apogee.

Perhaps that is why it feels so sublime.

Alastor wants to keep marking Angel. To keep spilling inside him until he’s completely sated, and then some. He aches to bury himself over and over in that tight, warm heat. He wouldn’t even mind this purgatory, of claiming him, for the rest of eternity.

Angel is singular. Angel is beautiful.

And soon, Angel will be his.

“Mine,” he promises.

In the midst of thrusting, Alastor doesn’t notice his halo slipping, or the appearance of mangled, thorny shadows that snake up from his crown. His vision bleeds red as he coaxes another whine from Angel as he fucks him into the floor.

But then, Angel slips his arms around him, urging him on.

As quickly as it comes, the shadows dissipate as Angel falls apart in his arms. Love burrows inside his heart again, banishing all the possessive thoughts and ideas into those dark caverns from whence they came.

Alastor counts his blessings, and that includes Angel.

* * *

As his sixth orgasm strikes him and fills Angel, he tightens his hold. His lips skate down his freckled jaw to his throat.

He won’t let Angel leave.

He can’t.

Alastor will do everything in his power for him to stay. If that makes him covetous, then so be it.

Unbeknownst to them, a slight crackle of static slips past Gabriel’s horns, and buzzes faintly during the climatic overture, marring the amorous orchestra.

It disappears as quickly as it arrives.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Why yes, it _is_ hot where I'm going.
> 
> 2\. To be clear, in this version of Heaven, sodomy or homosexuality are not considered sins. However, greed, gluttony, and covetous behaviors are.
> 
> 3\. Sorry about the lateness; will endeavour to be more prompt in the future.


End file.
